TR +71+ 



P R 



POEMS AND ODES 



LAURENCE GIFFORD HOLLAND. 




^.* 



$ribatcls iarititrU 

BY 

WATSON & HAZELL, LONDON AND AYLESBURY. 
1875. 



aA 







Class _P_.R. 4r1g\4 r 



DOBELL COLLECTION 



POEMS AND ODES. 



POEMS AND ODES 



LAURENCE GIFFORD HOLLAND. 




$nbatelg ^rititar 



WATSON & HAZELL, LONDON AND AYLESBURY. 
1875. 




205449 
■j 13 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 
THE SPECTRAL MARCH : A LEGEND OF THE LAKES ... 7 

MARINA : A DIALOGUE 26 

THE DAUGHTERS OF CLOOD : A TALE OF NORTH WALES . 32 

ODE ON THE FALL OF NAPOLEON III 37 

LINES ON PASSING THE GUARDS'. MONUMENT AFTER THE 

BLACK SEA CONFERENCE '"'V \' . . . . 41 

THE MUSIC OF THE "WATERS . . . . .42 

BETTWS REVISITED . . . . . .. . .45 

WATERSMEET, LYNMOUTH 48 

CHRISTMAS ECHOES . .49 

THE LANDSCAPE 52 

THE AFTERTHOUGHT 53 

ALONE : ON VISITING A DESERTED HOME . . . 55 

ODE TO THE SPIRIT OF MORN 58 

NEVERMORE . '. .60 

ODE TO SUMMER 61 

THE CHIMES . 65 

THE LAST SUMMER DAT .67 

"WORSHIPPED WITH HER" .69 

A NIGHT AT SEA . . . .' • 70 

" A LITTLE WHILE " . . . . . . .74 



Contents. 



REGRET 

THE TORRENT 

THE CATHEDRAL . 

TO A , ON LEAVING F 

JANAFRA 

" ONE THOUGHT OF ME 

TO HOPE 

ABSENCE 

TO SPRING . 

TO ON RECEIPT OF HER PORTRAIT 



80 
M 
85 
86 
87 
89 
90 



SONNETS. 

I. THE SHADOW ON THE PATH 92 

II. THE COLD LOVE 93 

in. LOST OPPORTUNITY 93 

IV. AUTUMN SONNET TO MY MOTHER 94 

V. BLACKFRIARS BRIDGE 95 

VI. TO THE " UNRETURNING BRAVE " 96 

VII. " THE VTTND HAS SUNK TO REST " .... 97 

VIII. TO KEATS 97 

IX. ON MEMORY . . .98 

X. SCOTLAND REVISITED .99 

XI. TANTALLAN CASTLE 100 

XII. STRATHEARN 101 

XIII. A LETTER FROM GRASSMERE 101 

XTV. EARTHLY GREETINGS . . . . . . . ] 02 

XV. ON THE DEATH OF A FAVOURITE DOG . . . .103 

XVI. FINIS 103 



POEMS AND ODES. 



Poems. 

THE SPECTRAL MARCH. 

A LEGEND OF THE LAKES. 
Time— 174:5. 

DEDICATION. 

ToE. 

Elsie ! the sun is shining on the hill 

That shelters thy fair home beneath his brow ; 

I feel the gentle lake is rippling still, 

And thou art feasting on its quiet now. 

Land of wild beauty ! swift thy scenes did fly 

From tranced eyes, that seem to wake again ; 

Or have I wandered as in days gone by 

Through fairy paths, like Knight of Triermaine ? 



8 The Spectral March. 

Elsie ! There is a charm remembrance weaves 
Dearer for this — it never may return, 
Like the bright colours of autumnal leaves, 
Like the last hues that linger on the fern : 
So have I caught this vision of the past, 
Borne as the voice which haunts the mountain Fell, 
An echo from the torrents — and the last 
Regretful note was breathed in thy farewell : 
Then — as thine eyes may glance upon this tale, 
Our thoughts — perchance our sighs — may meet at 
Grassmere Yale. 



Sir Beaumont de Brathay will forth to-night, 

And he tells not where he roam ; 
With gloom on his brow — yet his eyes are bright, 

" whither away from home ? " 
No word from his lips shall his hopes unfold, 

But a glance of impatient speed, 
For he must away ere the noon be old, 

'Tis a race 'twixt sunlight and steed ! 
" Whither so fast ? " still no answer he gave, 

Nor checked his bold courser's career. 
Only he turned with a light-hearted wave, 

On the banks of Windermere. 
" I fear me some ill awaiteth the race, 

And the heir of Brathay Hall, 



The Spectral March. 

I liked not his mien — I liked not his pace, 

And I heard the Crier's * call 
Last night as the tempest scattered the leaves 
Over my lattice and under the eaves : 
Startled I woke at its echoing shrill 
'Cross the lone waters, till sunk ; neath the hill, 
And thou know'st 'tis death to list to his cry," 
Quoth the old steward as his lord flew by. 



But whilst old Adam stood aghast 

The Brathay's stream beside, 
Winandermere thy meads are passed 

Upon that lonely ride. 
Away ! away ! by mount and fell 

The mystic vale to find ; 
But hark ! — he starts — for down the dell 

There soundeth hoofs behind. 
His horse too swerved, though no one near, 

And pricked his ears on high ; 
Was it the wind on Rydal Mere ? 

Was it the rushes' sigh ? 
A sudden tremor ran along, 

His hand one moment shook, 
A thousand tales unbidden throng 

His thoughts — he dared not look. 

* " The Crier of Windermere," v. Old Cumberland Legends, 
see note 2. 



io The Spectral March. 

Each rustling bough his fancies shape 

A skeleton's outstretched arm, 
"Waved from 'neath a shadowy cape — 

Strange and fantastic alarm ! 
Yet still that sound of two who ride, 

At the spirit's silent call, 
Steeds of no mortal birth astride, 

To the feast of Armboth Hall* 
" Ho ! ho ! " Their hollow laugh alone 

Hath hushed all other sound ; 
The fleshless forms of skull and bone 

Must course again their round. 
Away ! brave Bayard, start no more ! 

The wind is taint with breath 
Of fiends who ride to Thhiemere's shore, 

Away ! their chill is death. 
As sweeps the storm on EasedaWs breast, t 

As thunder o'er Nab Scar, 
Those phantom shadows of unrest 

Arise from caves afar. 
From haunted glen and darksome ghyll, 

Helm's Crag and Mickledore, 
From giant Pyke, and brackish rill, 

They tramp the earth once more. 
Away ! where Kothay late o'erran 

Sweet Grassmere's lowly vale, 



* See Cumberland Legends, " Skeletons of Colgfirtn Hall.' 
Sec note 3. 
+ See note 4. 



The Spectral March. 

Till far behind Helvellyn man * 

Is reared against the gale. 
'Tis past ! The lights of dreaded Hall 

Shine faintly o'er the lake, 
While from their brows that cold-damp thrall 

Both horse and rider shake. 



A lurid light hangs o'er the sky, 

The range of mountains seemed 
Shrouded in twilight, still more high, 

As sunset nearer gleamed. 
Slower, to cool his heated brain, 

Sir Beaumont checked his pace, 
Yet bowed in thought he loosed the rein, 

And mused upon the chase, 
Where he was as the stag, — the hounds, 

Those phantoms of the air ; 
But all is still, — no step rebounds 

From forth the shadow's lair. 
The hour has come to enter now 

St. John's enchanted vale, 
Where dwells on steep ascending brow, 

The Seer, Michael Dale. 
Yea ! — 'twas the calm that ushers best 

The soul's secluded dreams, 
When earth prepares to sink to rest, 

Yet clings to heaven's pure beams : 

* See note 5. 



12 The Spectral March. 

And who can ever paint their glow 
Who ne'er ascends to gain 

Th' unruffled peace of vales below, 
Locked in a mountain's chain ? 



Now Bayard lodged in hostel near, 

Is resting from his toil ; 
The path to hermit's cell lies here, 

With many a winding coil, 
Till lost amid the torrent's bed, 
Where the wild chaos overhead 
Hath hurled each shattered fragment down, 
That dared to brave the tempest's frown. 
From rock to rock young Beaumont sped ; 
Till to the spot seclusion found, 
To hide its grief in thought profound, 
Betraying feet of shepherds led. 
There by his rustic bench — a stone 
Wreathed with red fern — the old man stood, 
In pensive yet expectant mood, 
And keenly watched the path alone. 



what a noble view displayed ! 
Misshapen crags and boulders lay, 
Heaped in a wild discordant way, 
Yet all a harmony obeyed. 



The Spectral March. 13 

'Mid varied scene no link was lost 

To fill the void where eye could trace 

Some blot, which might have marred their grace, 

Eanges that weird confusion crost 

Only to add a charm more deep, 

When from each spur to peak the gaze 

Grows dim beneath the golden rays, 

Which set a crown on yonder steep ; 

Spirit of twilight, linger now, 

For thou hast touched Blencathra's brow ! 



Then, as the Knight approaching bade 
" God speed, " the seer slowly rose, 
And pointing down the silent glade, 

Where Greta's silver offspring flow?. 
" These are my comrades in the hour 
When hope seems vanished with the sun, 
When gloomy doubt or griefs o'erpower ; 
When still the web of life is spun 
With many tangled threads of woe ; 
W T hen cheeks are pale as driven snow : 
Then comfort lingers on the hill, 
And pours from purple cloud her balm ; 
Drinks then my soul from yon sweet rill 
A dear relief — a perfect calm. 
Ah ! many a chill and bitter groan, 
Thou know'st not of — if ne'er alone ! 



14 The Spectral March. 

I too — ah well ! — once loved and yearned 
For nobler life, for higher aim, 
And oft those laden thoughts returned, 
Burdening till years one blank became. 
Oft have I longed for some dear smile 
Once more my weary days beguile, 
And only this worn seat hath known 
What hours have left me — still alone ! " 



" I sent for thee this night to tell 

The signs and omens overcast 
By yonder clouds o'er Nathdale Fell, p 

Pregnant with issues from the Past. 
For, ere the su*t hath stooped to-night, 

Thou'lt read perchance thy future doom, 
For if the stars have told aright, 

The eve is fraught with death and gloom. 
Aye ! 'twas just when Autumn, creeping 

With its reddening twilight by, 
Tinges o'er the forest, reaping 

Crests of trees still loth to die ; 
When the fleecy clouds, escaping 

From the coming clasp of night, 
Clung round peak and headland, shaping 

Strange and wizened forms of white ; — 
'Twas such an eve, ten summers gone, 

Gazing dow r n the pass, as now, 



The Spectral March. 15 

Watched I long one star alone, 

Risen o'er Blencathra's brow. 
Sudden, as a sunbeam, dying, 

Caught the precipice below, 
Darted stag, from hunter flying, 

From a cleft within the glow. 
Only one lone rider followed, 

And I marked his headlong speed, 
To his hounds ne'er turned nor hallooed — 

Silent, on a snow-white steed. 
Ne'er he stayed for torrent streaming, 

Paused not for the deepest dell, 
Till I thought mine eyes were dreaming — - 

Who could ride from Souther Fell ? 
Who could thus in venture fearless 

Course the hill without a track, 
Crossing there, all lone and cheerless, 

Darkest gorge of Saddleback ? * 
One more chasm, — Heav'n defend him ! 

For the stag haih bounded o'er ; — 
He waits one moment on the brim, 

Leaps — and falls — I saw no more. 
Then with lights and ladders guiding 

Up the heights I led them all ; 
Searched in vain each nook and hiding ; 

Not a trace of that wild fall. 
Stag — nor steed — nor rider found there, 

Not a hoof-mark on the heath, 

* i.e. Blencathra. 



1 6 The Spectral March. 

Vain were all our shoutings — nowhere 

Answered voice or groan beneath. 
Backward then we hastened, fearing 

That some evil fate had sped, 
And when this still valley nearing 

Came the news — thy sire was dead : 
Aye ! and death like that — Forgive me 

That my tale hath brought thee pain, 
'Twas strange — heavens ! as I live — See ! 

See ! he seems to ride again." 



Yes ! a horseman surely prancing 

As the bard had told of yore, 
On the rocks ; where sunlight glancing 

Lingered yet ; and showed still more ! 
Horse and foot, — the sporran wearing, 

Broadswords bared in war's array ; 
Sudden, like a serpent rearing 

Coil on coil they wound their way. 
Darkness all around, and thunder, 

Lurking in the clouds below, 
Served to light that living wonder 

Flashing from the last weird glow. 
Troop on troop in gallant splendour, 

Marching — where no feet could tread, 
Souther, Bowscale Tarn surrender 

All their terrors as they sped. 



The Spectral March. 17 

Down the steep the flocks fled bleating, 

Checked not by the collies' bound, 
Who — without their wonted greeting — 

Crouched, or trembling slunk around : 
While their masters gathered staring, 

With no word from man to man. 
Haggard faces grimly bearing, 

Whilst a sort of murmur ran, 
" Heard ye not the bagpipe screaming ? 

Heard ye not the roll of drum ?" 
" No ! but where the sun is gleaming 

O'er the pass I saw them come. 
Saw the chieftain's banner waving, 

Marked the tartan's chequered fold, 
Wondered at their horses braving 

Cliff and gorge and crater's hold." 
" What undaunted hearts are marching 

Where no Cumbrian dared before, 
By the fallen stones o'erarching 

Torrents wilder than Lodore ? 
What are these, the Highland foemen '? 

What are these, the Stuart's band ? 
Heath with ensign interwoven 

Glittering from a rebel's hand ?" 
Still they wind from Tro»tbeck's water, 

Still they flow from Derwent's side, 
Thirsting for revenge and slaughter, 

Marching with a conqueror's pride. 



1 8 The Spectral March. 



First a prickly show of lances, 

Fearless vanguard of the clan, 
From the deep ravine advances, 

While their glittering pennons fan 
Breath to kindle martial glory, 

Floating o'er each gallant file, 
Crimsoned as with vengeance gory 

Wreaked in scorn of stout Carlisle. 
See ! against the forest shining 

Plume and honnet, kilt and plaid, 
Fainter now for day declining, 

With a pall of mist o'erlaid, 
Sinks into a hearse of mountains, 

Closing in their darksome line, 
While the streams from secret fountain;; 

With their mournful dirge repine, 
Still fresh forces ever moving 

Follow those who disappear, 
Wliile their leaders seem reproving 

Laggard footsteps in the rear. 
Aye ! a host in battle order, 

Breasts impatient for the fray, 
Pouring from the Scottish Border — 

'Tis their Prince who leads the way ! 
what stirring charms enlighten 

Hues that wreathe the front of war ! 
Gleaming o'er the hills tojbrighten 

Homes in trembling pride afar. 



The Spectral March. ig 

Glory beckons to the altar 

Where a patriot's heart is vowed ; 
What faint breast — thus decked — can falter ! 

To her gilded service bowed, 
With the thrill of trumpet ringing : 

Strange it seems so silent there. 
Listen ! winds may yet be bringing 

Some far notes — nay ! still the air ; 
Nor rumbling car, nor tramp of feet 

Sounds from that ghostly show ; 
But still, as if Death's winding sheet 

Already laid them low. 
And now the darkness seems to blend 

Those streaming ranks of light, 
That ne'er to Threlkeld's Hall descend, — 

Lost in the shroud of Night ! 



" Let me join them," cried Sir Beaumont, 

" Let me fly to yonder force ! 
All my heart is beating towards them — 

Men or ghosts ! To horse ! To horse ! ' 
He starts — the seer biddeth " Stay, 

Frenzy-madness thus should speak, 
Wouldst thou ride to phantom armies ? 

See ! the blood hath left my cheek, 
And not mine alone — your hand too 

Trembles 'neath some unknown spell ; 



The Spectral March. - 

See ! the coward shepherd crouches, 

Muttering charms in yonder dell. 
See ! the cattle herd together, 

Hear the startled infant's cry ; 
Stands aghast the cotter breathless, 

All afeard — yet scarce knows why. 
Go not ! 'twas an awsome vision, 

'Twas a warning note of harm ; 
Stay and hear me, for the spirit 

Bodeth now some dread alarm." 



As he spake, the whirlwind rushing 
'Mid the roll of thunder shocks, 
Swept across the pathway, brushing 
Michael's long snow-waving locks. 
Nerve and pulse were stirred — eyes glaring, 

Seemed he prophet of the wild, 
Till the stricken knight up staring 

Could but listen like a child. 
Now was every valley round them, 

Wrapped by mantling hand of fate, 
Stretching o'er the heights that bound them, 

Silver How to Ormathwaite. 
On th' horizon regal Skiddaw 

Reared his head above the rest,- 
While rampart Pyke and towering Scaw 
Guard lone empire in the West. 



The Spectral March. 

There — where crag, with forest changes, 

Guardians of the cleft ravine, 
Or where graceful upland ranges 

Hid the chasm — nought was seen. 
Darkness hung on tree and meadow, 

Through the narrow pass — a storm 
Breaking from the mountain shadow 

Lit the aged seer's form. 
First in tones that feebly striving 

Sunk upon the blast unheard ; 
Till, .the roar of winds subsiding, 

Dying gusts bore out his words. 



" Wraiths of heroes marching silent, 

These forebode the soldier's bier, 
Fading in abyss of mountains, 

Where no mortal eye may peer. 
Yea ! their very shadow sendeth 

Chill forewarnings of dismay : 
'Tis the outward sign that bendeth 

To the voice which all obey ; 
Voice of riven spheres, where storm-clouds, 

Omens of hereafter, roll ; 
Voice of spirit forms new risen ! 

Voice of Nature and the Soul ! 
One life -breathing note hath sounded, 

One stern Voice its curse hath hurled ; 



22 The Spectral March. 

One redeeming Light of Heaven 

Bindeth mortal to the World. 
Thence the deep revealings flutter 

Ghostly, grimly through the glen, 
Lake and woodland vale o'erteeming 

With the coming doom of men. 
What are we but Nature's vassals ? 

Trembling when her breast is stirred, 
Or in lovelike rapture living 

On the music of her word. 
Hues of sunset ! voice of torrents ! 

Ye are gods, as well as we, 
For a little while in passing 

To the dim eternal sea, 
Shall the breath which floats between us, 

Shall the bonds of love be vain ? 
Though we grow in life together, 

Shall we never meet again ? 
Yea ! for these frail spirit visions 

Are the promise of new birth, 
In more golden twilight shining 

With the hopes stillborn on earth. 
Aye I I feel these phantom shadows 

O'er the pass will gleam again, 
With thine own brave spirit gathered 

In the mysteries of — then." 

XIII. 

" Woe to all the race of Stuart ! 

Woe to Scotland's sons who brave 



The Spectral March. 23 

Cumbria's lordly wrath, advancing 

From their Highlands to their grave. 
With thy horsemen Death is riding, 

Last of most ill-fated line, 
Derwent- Tweed in grief o'erflowing, 

Mingled streams of blood entwine. 
Woe to all the hearths of mourning, 

Who have bid ' God speed ' to those 
Sworn to right Queen Mary's offspring, 

Scion of a Martyr's* woes ! 
Fired with all that hope allures with — 

All the nobler dreams of life, 
Youth and stalwart age combining 

Greet th' infectious call to strife. 
Mother ! draw thy son towards you, 

As you never clasped before, 
Kiss his brow, for unreturning 

He shall tread the heath no more. 
Widowed bride ! who watched thy chieftain 

Gaily turn to hide a tear ; 
Thou hast given all to Scotland ; 

Welcome home his honoured bier. 
From th' ancestral glen of beauty 

March the sons of warlike race, 
Prompt to hear the call of duty, 

Fierce to meet the steels embrace. 
Last of knighthood's proudest glory ! 

Last of feudal love of King ! 

* Charles I. 



24 The Spectral March. 

Fitly end those ages hoary 

With the deathless deeds they sing. 
Cold rebuffs and colder glances 

Strike th' enthusiast's glowing heart, 
And the only ray which crowns him 

Shines — when soul and body part. 
Thou too, Knight, whose blade is leaping 

From its tingling sheath half bare, 
See ! what fields grim war is reaping — 

Beaumont de Brathay, thou art there ! " 



From that night of mystic vision 

Scarce a year had rolled away, 
Michael Dale, as if still sleeping, 

In his lonely cottage lay. 
For a simple herdsman found him 

On his wonted seat of old, 
Marked his drooping head — and touching 

Dropped his hand — for it was cold. 
Mourn, Brathay Hall ! old Adam, mourn ! 

Watching for return of day, 
That is long in coming — darkness 

Dwells upon the house for aye ! 
There, with hand yet round the banner 

He had given life to save, 
Lies your lord, where desperate valour 

Sought and found a common grave. 
Dying for his King's lost honour 

He has fought and bled in vain,* 



The Spectral March. 2 

Smiled upon by scornful mountains, 

Heights he never may regain. 
There the heart of youth lies breathless ; 

While a stain is on the sod, 
Purple as the heath that crowned him 

With the face upturned to God. 

Finis. 

November 4. 1871. 



NOTES. 



1. — The Spectral March over Saddleback (or Blencathra) is 
mentioned by Miss Martineau. Though the characters and 
story of this poem are imaginary, such a vision was actually 
seen by several persons before the rebellion in 1745 ; as also an 
army was seen marching over Helvellyn before Marston Moor 
(vide Wordsworth). I have only taken the popular tradition 
in making such wraiths as these the forerunners of death to 
the spectator. 

2. — " The Crier's call."' — The Crier of Windermere was a 
phantom that used to be heard calling across the water for 
'• A boat ! a boat ! " and when the ferryman went, in obedi- 
ence to the supposed traveller, he returned but to die, with a 
face whose horror alone depicted what he had met with on the 
other side, for he never spoke again. It was continually heard 
on stormy nights hailing the "ferry." 

3. — " Armboth Hall." — This hall, on the shore of Thirlmere, 
was often seen mysteriously lit up on certain nights, when the 
goblins held their revels. The skeletons of Calgarth Hall, on 
Windermere, were those of two who had been cruelly and 
unjustly executed for the sake of their lands by the lord of 
Calgarth. Their skulls for ever remained in the niche of the 



26 Marina, 

windows, except when they were reclaimed by the skeletons 
at the unearthly summons to attend the Armboth feast. 

4. — " Easedale's breast." — Easedale Tarn is a small moun- 
tain lake about two miles from Grassmere. 

5. — ; ' Helvellyn Man." — Man is the name for the top of any 
mountain, as The Old Man. Skiddaw Man. etc. 



MARINA. 

A DIALOGUE. 

Scene — A chamber. 

Lorenzo — (solus) [Storm without. 

(loquitur) 

" There's a lighter touch than feeling, 

There's a further view than sight, 
When the evening bells are pealing, 

And a song rings through the night. 
There's .a presence none descrieth, 

Which rustles behind my chair— 
There's a whisper that low dieth ; 

Come in ! for I know thou'rt there. 
Come in ! for the winds without, love, 

Are scattering death around, 
Waking the silent street ; above 

Their wild blasts I heard the sound, 
As a step beside the doorway 

That feareth to enter in, 



Marina. 27 

Whilst a cloud my forehead wore ; say 

What peace thou bringest within. 

(Spirit of Marina appears.) 
Tis a shipwrecked soul that straying 

All along the world's rough way, 
Had launched on the ocean — playing 

With a human heart for prey. 
Yet the wave hath eased thy sorrow 

From the thought of those afar, 
And thou com'st to bid " Good morrow " 

To the life beyond the star ! 

(Marina whispers.) 
Thou comest to say the billow 

No longer did roar so loud, 
And thy deep, deep sea-blue pillow 

Was tenderer than a shroud. 
Thou sayest the storm-clouds thunder — 

The rending of mast and sail — 
Was unheard amidst the wonder, 

At the land beneath the gale." 

Maeina. 
" There sleep was endless ; lullabies 

From the breasts of sounding shells 
Hymn to the nutt'ring soul that lies 

Where the pearl of beauty dwells — 
Where eternal rest is lightened 

By the babbling dreams * of the Past — 

:; Let not our babbling dreams affright our souls." 

Richard III., Act y. 



28 Marina. 

Where remembrance is full brightened, 

For there no regrets o'ercast : 
There the azure waves were mingling 

With the voices of — Elsewhere ; 
And the old, old chimes were jingling 

From the belfries of the air. 
There the music of youthful years 

Was poured from a- rock's caved lair, 
Whose melody sang not of tears* 

Till I felt a god was there. 
The pure embrace of a spirit, 

Borne on white lips of the foam, 
Drove pain from the eyes that were lit 

With the glistening thought of home." 

Lorenzo. 
" Didst weep for that love which was thine, 
In those days of girl and boy ? " 

Marina. 
"Oh, no S for that kiss was divine, 
And Heaven can breathe but joy." 

Lorenzo. 
" Marina ! Remember the days 
You would stay in yonder glen, 

* ■" Our sweetest songs are those which tell of saddest 
thought." Shelley. 



Marina. 29 

Waiting long for the twilight rays 

To flit over my path. Ah, then ! 
When the branches of elms o'erhead 

With dirge of our sighs bewailed." 

Marina. 

' ' Aye ! Memory gleamed o'er my bed 

With smiles of deep love unveiled ; 
No longer darkened by shadows 

Of bitterness — shunned in vain ; 
No thought of clouds o'er the meadows — 

Omen of parting in pain. 
No ! but on halo of brightness 

Shed o'er the scenes that we knew, 
She sails with ineffable lightness, 

Our earthly loves to renew." 

Lorenzo. 
" Marina ! Eemember the hills — 

The rays of the sunset there, 
Which, gaily reluming the rills 

Seemed in our pleasure to share. 
Did not the vows that we plighted 

Come back o'er that lonely deep ? 
Did not the looks that you slighted 

Break on those visions of sleep T' 

Marina. 

" Oh, no ! yet the light of those eves — 
The glow that we used to feel — 



$o Marina. 

New reaped in a harvest of sheaves, 
Sun-rays of Heaven reveal. 

That throbbing which revelled in light — 
Felt with the soul of the glen : 

That peace — the clear joyance of sight 
Still purer, illumined again." 

Lorenzo. 

"Marina ! I touch not thy hand, 

Nor gaze on those eyes of delight ; 
Yet I paint their hues, as I stand 

In the golden presence of light ; 
And I feel that their hope is mine 

Whilst I bow to the Heavenly will, 
And, borne by the fathomless brine, 

Come happy, soft warnings, Be still. 
blessed rewakenings of life, 

Which call to my heart when alone, 
With nature no longer at strife, 

With memories carved not on stone, 
Or worn by the fretting, the aching 

Of thoughts that will hive in our breast 
To steal the sweets of Love's making, 

And leave but a craving unrest ! 
Tears ! that flow from life's portal 

To swell the deep river of years 
Back from the tomb — ye are mortal ! 

Death's gate is not opened for tears. 
Our days indeed ye shall cumber 

With beatings from waves of despair ; 



Marina. 3 1 

But 'neath the surf there is slumber — 

The dreams of our life shall be there. 
Beauty no longer shall wither, 

Fast bound by the reach of our prime, 
Darting thus hither and thither 

To perch on frail blossoms of time ; 
But there 'neath the voices of bells, 

With the notes of a soul-born rhyme, 
'Mid all that was purest she dwells, 

Eternally resting sublime ; 
Tell me ? the halo of twilight 

Was never reclaimed by the shade '? 
But silence interpreted right, 

Her thoughts were not destined to fade. 
The murmurs that Nature hath blest, 

Through the heath and the woodclad vale, 
Will flow through the land of our Rest, 

And. ripple once more with Love's tale ? 
hear me ! 'tis chilly, this room 

Besieged by the armies of storm ; 
Light flickers — no stars — but a gloom 

Which mantles thy wave-bedewed form. 
Yes ! you smile, you whisper once more, 

{Chimes heard.) 

As chimes from the silvery bell, 
They call thee — those voices of yore ! 

Marina! Marina! Farewell!" 

(Spirit disappears as Lorenzo Advances.) 



32 

THE DAUGHTEKS OF CLOOD. 
a tale of north wales. 

Argument. 

The men of Ardudwy, having carried off the daughters of 
the neighbouring yale of Clood, are pursued and slain by the 
men of Clood. But they have so won the love of their brides, 
that on their death the latter prefer to throw themselves into 
Lyn Morwynion (the Maiden Lake) rather than return home. 

I. 

Still are thy waters, lonely Morwynion ! 
Beneath the wild shelter of mountain and mere ; 
Thou art their offspring, loving Morwynion ! 
So placidly nestling 'mid wilderness here. 

ii. 

All silent and dreary — Seclusion thy home, 
The glow of the heather — the purple is thine ; 
Yet who could have recked of the high-lifted foam t 
Which covered thy breast with the fierceness of brine ? 

in. 
Now resting in sadness, deep coloured by age, 
Thy bosom hath welcomed the peace that comes last ; 
Now fled the loud beatings — the lightning of rage 
That flashed o'er thy waters and died in the Past. 

IV. 

Ah ! but thou lovest still yet to remember 
The days that are sweetened though shadowed by 
Time ; 



The Daughters of Clood. 33 

Blossoms of spring were the seed of December, 
And dear is the dawn to the flush of our prime. 

Down by the banks of thy deep hidden waters 
Wailed to bleak Manod Clood's fairest of daughters, 
Mourning by streams that were swollen in sorrow, 
Chilled by the thought of their doom on the morrow : 
Theirs was the grief that no comfort could smother, 
Robbed of the aid both of husband and brother. 
Wild the revenge that was deam-to their pleading, 
Bitter the anguish when loved ones lay bleeding ; 
Low shrank those frail sisters in kinship of woe, 
And watched the fierce battle wane faintly below ; 
Closer and closer their tears knit together 
Hearts whose lone home was the mountain and 

heather, 
That dear bond of grieving was all they possest — 
The silence that follows despair was their rest ; 
For now from the clamour of triumph or wail 
The cry of their fathers was borne on the gale. 

Choeus of Men of Clood. 

" Back to us ! back to us ! maids of the vale, 

We have won ! we have triumphed o'er those 
Who scattered our blossoms and left in their trail 

But the leaves and the thorns of our rose. 
Back to us ! back to us ! all is forgot ; 

Wronged honour hath taken its due : 
Restore to our valley its once happy lot ; 

Come again ! they are fathers that sue." 

3 



34 The Daughters of Clood. 

Then from those maidens fair Elsie arose 
Calm in the strength of despair ; yet of those, 
Torn from their home hut to cherish the foe, 
She was most fearful — now truest in woe ; 
With heart throbbing fast, with eyes kindling fire, 
She hurled forth rebuke on the head of a sire. 

Elsie. 
" Return ! nay ! we cannot again ; 
No Present or Future is ours, — 
The past is uncleansed from the stain 
Of the dead that lie thickly as flowers! 
Here hope has departed, and love 
Hath fled from the doom- stricken door, 
To seek on far mission above 
The balm for that sad ' Nevermore.' 
The breath ye think gone is but still ; 
For life was not wholly their own, 
'Twas caught by each echoing rill, 
And borne where the swallows have flown. 
'Tis fresh on the tremulous heath ! 
'Tis lit on the motionless dome, 
That links what is lovely beneath 
To the life of a spirit's home. 
Ye have but driven the gladness, 
The tender affections of earth, 
From the chill threshold of sadness, 
To the goal of a purer birth. 
; Tis ye who the roses scattered ! 
The clusters that joyed in the spring: 



The Daughters of Clood. 35 

The porch with its branches scattered* 
No more with our voices shall ring. 
Beauty now freed from its sorrow, 
And wreathed with a circle of green, 
Shall crown an endless to-morrow 
With bloom that we longed for unseen. 
Life is new opening before us, 
Which hath dwelt by our side unknown, 
Hailed by the forest's pure chorus, 
In Heaven its notes are full grown. 
Then why should we pine for more years 
At the hand of a cheerless Time ? 
Who holds but a cup full of tears, 
Embittered by knowledge of crime. 

But there, where our childhood drew breath, 

The void of hushed voices must dwell ; 

The quiet, the shadow of death 

Looms dark o'er that once happy dell. 

The spirit of woodlands is sad, 

The murmurs of rivulet still, 

The gorge and the uplands are clad 

In peace which descends from the hill : 

For now where are those which have made 

The hills and the valleys rejoice ? 

Now only the leaves in bare glade 

That are tossed by the winds have voice. 

sisters ! we dare not recall, — 

There's sleep meath the waves of the lake, 

Whose bosom alone shall enthral 

The passion which sorrows awake. 



36 The Dangl iters of Clood. 

Its ripples shall seem to the mere 
The sighs of our bitter farewell, 
Soft winning the sympathy near, 
Which lies in each heather-bound dell. 
Though ties of our kindred be fled, 
Our hearts shall be laid at their shrine, 
Who fell, like the beams that are red, 
To rise in the east more divine." 

Chokus of Daughtees of Clood. 

" Sigh for us, sigh for us, gentle Morwynion, 
Sigh for the lovers who rashly have wooed, 

When o'er thy bosom the eagle's stern pinion 
Sweeps to his home o'er the silence of Clood." 

Scarce the last notes of their music had died, 
Wild as if bittern in solitude cried ; 
Scarce the last sun rays had tinged with red flame 
Lake and lone mountain — thy breast was the same - 
As I looked on it now, yet beneath there lay 
The sorrows of Clood's fairest daughters for aye. 

Keep their fell secret then, lonery Morwynion, 
For thou, when all else was deserted, wert dear : 
Thou wert the tomb of their hopes, sad Morwynion ; 
Here mingled the wave and last ebbing tear. 

Still over thy surge may the story be told 
Of hearts that refused to surrender the Past ; 
To ears of fond Nature thy burden unfold, 
How Love found her rest 'neath thy waters at last. 



Ode on the Fall of Napoleon III. 37 

gentle Morwynion ! beguiling the lonely, 
The winds seem to whisper in life weaned mood ; 
" Ah ! though we love like the men of Ardudwy, 
The world is devoid of a daughter of Clood." 

1872, 



ODE OX THE FALL OF NAPOLEON III. 1870. 



Again and yet again the trumpet blast 
Wakes the shrill echoes o'er the peaceful fields ; 
Challenge and haughty answer fiercely cast 
From shore to shore proclaim that neither yields. 

The trump of war, 

With cannon's roar, 
Startles the blood from cheek of peasant pale, 
And shakes the happy pastures of the vale, 

By stream that flows, 

Foredoomed to woes, 
Foredoomed to see Ambition do its worst, 
Leading the despot line by battle curst. 



Hast thou perchance seen eagle on his course 
Swoop with a fiery onslaught on his prey ? 
Or marked the restless pawing of the horse 
That champs the bit all eager for the fray ? 

When Europe slept, 

So Gallia swept, 



38 Ode on the Fall of Napoleon III. 

Snorting a proud defiance on her foe , 
Endured so long— at length her might to know. 

The last note rung, 

Forth warriors sprung, 
Nor longer shall the warhorse vainly prance, 
The rein hangs loose on frenzied mane of France. 



God of battles ! what a world is.ours ! 
Yirtue with vice confused, and right with might. 
These are all Thine, Thy instruments these powers, 
Working Divine intentions in the fight 

Of empty fame 

And sinful aim. 
How long, how long, shall Christians stand aghast ? 
As each day brings its tale of thousands past, 

On whom the guilt 

Of blood thus spilt ? 
France, is it thine ? Away, o'erwhelming thought ! 
Judgment to him that judgeth shall be brought. 



Listen, France ! the wailing from thy fields ; 
Listen, France ! thy challenge back returns ; 
Cannon with hoarse-mouthed tempest vainly shields 
Despairing flight, while farm or hamlet burns. 
Listen, France ! the tramp of thousand feet, 
Stern in their vengeful task thy foes are come. 
Listen, France ! thy scattered hosts retreat, 
Leaving the track of many a ruined home. 



Ode on the Fall of Napoleon III. 39 



But where is he who should have led the van '? 
Where is great Caesar, when his legions charge 
Into a reeking grave ? in vain we scan 
The fast thinned host that desperate line the marge 
Of stream that flows with corpses * — stream of blood. 
No ! nor there where late some rallying band, 
'Mid panic-stricken herd have dauntless stood 
To stem the ruthless waves that sweep their land. 
Lo ! here see one so coldly placed aside, 
His words unheeded — orders disobeyed ; 
No friend to soothe the pangs of fallen pride — 
Tis he ! who feebly moans, "Betrayed! betrayed." f 



Say, shall we now call Caesar great, 
Who fell so sudden and so low, 
Reproach him with usurped, estate, 
And turn unpitying from his woe ? 



Yet no ! our hand is not in thine, 
Inconstant fickle-hearted France ; 
G-o, Folly ! every wreath untwine 
Thou lavished on him — sing and dance. 

* " The Meuse is full of corpses, and the inhabitants are 
flying panic-stricken."— Daily Nens. 

f "On m'a trompe ! on m'a trompe ! " — Napoleon after 

ma. 



40 Ode on the Fall of Napoleon III. 



England forsakes no fallen friend, 
She ne'er forgets the deeds of yore ; 
She joys not when the darkening end 
Whispers to greatness, " Nevermore ! ' 



A throne ! and what a throne was this ! . 
Built in a day, and gone e'en now ; 
No crown of peace, no reign of bliss, 
Have marked the bold adventurer's brow. 

x. 
The rule that's built on love shall live, 
From sire to grandson handed down, 
Firm rooted in the soil, and give 
A sacred halo to the crown. 

XI. 

Such was not thine — thy race arose, 
The brand of Cain upon its sword, 
From rampant crime and reckless blows, 
By Freedom's trampled sons abhorred. 



Doomed is thy line ! " Baptized with fire," * 
The youthful offspring calmly stood 
Where slaughter breathed, and now the sire 
Falls 'mid a hetacomb of blood. 

* " Louis a re§u la bapteme de feu," 



The Guards' Monument, 41 



" Curse him," cries Gaul's anguislied mother, 
" Curse him for my darling boy : 

Low he lies, and now another 
Marches where the foes deploy. 



- " Curse him for my hopes perverted, 
Curse him for my plundered store, 
Curse him for my home deserted, 
Curse him " Stay — He is no more ! 



LINES ON PASSING THE GUARDS' MONUMENT 
AFTER THE BLACK SEA CONFERENCE. 

I passed beneath the shadow of the stone, 

Sad in its deathlike silence, — yet one ray, 

With the last pulsing of its life- had flown, 

To chase the marble chill of death away. 

" Too true," I sighed, "this stone has e'en more life 

Than England's slothful sons, with honour fled, 

And tear-dewed glory, won in noble strife, 

Sold by pale fear ! Oh, now is England dead ? " 

Cold grew the stone again, and Alma's name, j£&j»- a 

Which late seemed glowing in memorial feme, 

* Chislehurst, January, 1873. 



42 The Music of the Waters. 

Had faded into gloom now gathering round, 
While warriors looked with shame upon the ground, 
Shamed that their country could so soon forget, 
Content to register a foeman's threat. 

March, 1871. 



THE MUSIC OF THE WATEES. 

" The sounding cataract 
Haunted me like a passion. " 

WOBDSWOETH. 

I. 

ii The music of a conquered land ; the harp that once 

was free ! " 
Speak thus to sons of Caradoc — Breathe only peace to 

me. 
For Beauty here is conqueror, each fairy glen * her 

'slave, 
And Nature weaves a sylvan wreath over a Druid's 

grave. 
Voices of Cambria's rugged clefts, in ye shall Freedom 

raise 
The melodies of rivulets, the thankfulness of praise. 
Imprisoned by the wooded heights, yet free shall ever 

roll 
The offspring of a mountain's breast in one harmo- 
nious whole : 

* Fros Noddyn, Bettws j Coed. 



The Music of the Waters. 43 

Where the green woods and deep ravine have barred 

the outer world, 
Where through the centuries of Time the cataracts are 

hurled, 
Where the lone sound of waters, the murmuring of 

streams, 
Have lured the poet's wandering thoughts to share a 

wood-nymph's dreams. 
These are thy haunts, Freedom, where thou harpest 

evermore 
The song of cherished hopes and fears, the sympathies 

of yore, 
The rest that speaks of Heaven — the peace that we 

ne'er may know, 
Till the wrangling of the nations — the cry of toil and 

woe — 
Is banished from the woodlands ; till the melody of 

sound 
Hath wooed the restless thunder, and Elysium is 

found ! 



Yet words sound hollow as our breath, for how can 

they express 
The Spirit's sweet communion with Solitude's recess ? 
When on the lake and the moorland the sunset loves 

to rest, 
Where the soft-sounding waterfall leaps from a Gly- 

dwr's crest : 



44 The Music of the Waters. 

When on the glen and the mountain a deepening shade 
hath crept, 

And valleys — pillowed on the hills — in loveliness have 
slept : 

O'er many a pass Seclusion has drawn her hallowed 
veil, 

And the lull of inland waters has fallen on the dale. 

Sink on my heart, thou Silence, that strikest the secret 
chord 

Of Love which has caught in stillness the voice of Na- 
ture's Lord. 

Yet hark ! again the cataract has broke the twilight's 
charm, 

And moving strains roll down once more — they bear a 
streamlet's psalm. 

Then heart, that sighs and lingers in forgetfulness, 
enjoy 

The music of the waters, where no jarring notes annoy ; 

That through the vista of the Past their Spirit's sooth- 
ing power 

May ripple o'er those stones again, and murmur 
through the bower ; 

Their voices breathe of Freedom, but the hymn of Love 
as well 

Shall re-echo, in sad absence, the chorus of the dell. 

Bettwsy Coed, 1871. 



45 



BETTWS REVISITED, 1872. 

• It is not now as it has been of yore ; 
Tarn wheresoe'er I may, 
By night or day, 
The things which I have seen I now can see no more." 

Wordsworth. 



Once again hath my ears caught the sound of the 

streams ! — yet once more 
I stand in the valley of Beauty — I hear the Conway 

roar. 
It seemed but yesterday I stood — now all is changed 

to me, 
There's a discord in their music — there's a shadow on 

each tree. 
Still roll the 'whelming cataracts over the rock and 

stone ; 
But now their many voices recall but one that has 

gone. 
The Present is as lovely, but the Past must e'er 

remain 
To bind the links of Sorrow's forge in one unbroken 

chain. 
Through bloom, returned to deck the woods which 

wreathe this happy vale, 
The sighing zephyrs breathe again — but with a sadder 

tale. 



46 Bettivs Revisited. 

Ah ! wherefore swells wfthin my breast the fount that 

I thought was dry ? 
Fond memory lingers round the spot, and pierces heart 

and e) r e : 
'Xeath the rippling of the streamlets, on the purple" 

heights above, 
By the still retired cottage, comes the thought of one 

we love. 



Life, thou art bosomed in Nature ! her soul encom- 
passes thine, 

And with the garlands of Earth, our joys and our sor- 
rows entwine ; 

Yet sunshine gleaming through clouds, that gather and 
pass away, 

Brings no dawn for the heart that is crushed by bur- 
dens to-day. 

For, when returned to the places our yearnings have 
hallowed, 

Dearer — far dearer to us — are those which are sha- 
dowed 

By the sweeping of Sorrow's dark mantle. Ah ! then 
at last 

Comes sweetly and sadly o'er woodlands the voice of 
the Past. 

Each cliff and each turn bears the seal which Time 
marked on its brow ; 

Down the flow of the stream steals the sense of soli- 
tude now. 



Bettws Revisited. 47 

Valley of Beauty and shadows ! Valley of life and of 

death ! 
Here in the calm of seclusion, smiling 'neaih Nature's 

soft breath, 
The bend of thy hills winneth love, but memory claims 

the tear, 
For the wind brushing past me hath whispered, " His 

spirit is here." 

in. 

Silent and sad were our steps, as we round the clus- 
tering wood; 

shall not his presence then greet us ? for we knew 
how he could. 

Wherefore these fears, these tremblings ? the home 
that we knew is the same ; 

Here, in the heart of the highlands, we'll joy to wel- 
come — a name ! 

A name that is lost to the living, but lives with the 
dead ! 

Lost ! aye indeed to these waters, but where'er it is 
said, 

In the humble prayer of the peasant, with sighs — nay, 
with tears, 

The name of the lost shall be found yet more hallowed 
by years. 

The hand that we longed so to greet us is cold, but 
the heart 

Which has kindled such warm love within us can never 
• depart. , 



48 Watersmcet i Lynmouth. 

'Mid these fair' valleys, affection closely retaineth it 
- still, 

Linked by that golden chain which Remembrance hath 
woven to fill 

The void that is chill on this mountain ; loved shrine 
of the dead, 

The bloom of whose heather recalleth the soul that 
has fled. 

'Mid hues once bright to her gaze, grief- in her loneli- 
ness dwells 

Where the fond streams shall breathe the notes of 
eternal farewells. 

September, 1872. 



WATERSMEET,* LYNMOUTH, NORTH DEVON. 

Theee, in the closest glen that Devon knows, 
Amid the labyrinth of woodlands, flows 
United Lyn ; and through the merry dells 
The joy of meeting to the hillside tells ; 
There the twin streamlets rush to one another, 
Meeting once more as brother unto brother, 
"Whom absence long would part, and distance sever, 
Meeting once more in sweet embrace for ever. 
that two bosoms would for once unfold 
The rivers of the heart they frozen hold ! 
that for once our souls could cease to seem ! 
And pour each burdening thought, as this fair stream 
* Where the East and West Lynn join. 



Christmas Echoes. 49 

Leaps in the fulness of its joy to know 
The spirit lightened of a kindred woe. 
One path rewards the trials of devotion, 
One dear embrace of all unchecked emotion ; 
Mingled for aye the chords which each had shaken, 
One hymn of praise the slumbering stones awaken. 
Ah ! there no secrets weigh upon the breast ! 
Each rising billow swallowed into rest, 
Each ripple broke in pearls of light to greet 
Responding waters e'en now turned to meet : 
Rapt in the bliss of winding forth together, 
One voice to tell of mossy bank and heather, 
No strange reserve best impulses to smother, 
One heart to feel the void of one another. 



CHRISTMAS ECHOES. 
1. 

Boen but to die ! The stars proclaim 
The mystery of Christ again, 
And usher in the loud acclaim 
Which hails the birth to death of pain. 
Born but to die ! Earth's mingling bells 
Give back to starlit night the strain, 
That now were breathing forth farewells, 
And seek to change their notes in vain. 

4 



50 Christinas Echoes. 



Born but to die ! The ebb and flow 
Of human tides, of lingering years, 
Of all we sought to love and know, 
Of all the hopes which brought but tears. 
Born but to die ! through all their peals, 
Though joyous anthem mocks our ears, 
Through all the clamorous life, there steals 
The silent sadness of our fears. 



Born but to die ! our hearts' fond trust, 
Which grew as ivy round the tree, 
Till to the breast some heedless thrust 
Told friendship's hopes were not to be. 
Born but to die ! each generous thought 
That clung to faith, and would not see 
The cancer falsehood overwrought, 
Then woke to find it could not be. 



Born but to die ! the dream of fame 
That sported with ourSwi^so long, 
Doting upon some nobler aim, 
And chafed beneath its endless wrong. 
Born but to die ! Yes ! sailed away 
Upon the dwindling skylark's song ; 
Or frightened by the glare of day, 
The dream has faded 'mid the throng. 



Christmas Echoes. 51 



Born but to die ! With life's deep glow 
Flushed in the fuller depth of prime, 
Now sets upon the clouds of snow 
The gold- encircled Sun of Time : 
Girt with the purple of far West, 
His tender hues too bright to last ; — ■ 
'Tis o'er ! — and all the world had blest 
Adds but a shadow to the Past. 



Born but to die ! ye mingling bells ! 
Ye heavenly stars that dream of peace ! 
Betwixt your spheres one chorus swells, 
" The noblest aims of life must cease." 
Born but to die ! repeating still 
To one whom years have left alone, 
The wish to be, — yet not the will, 
A nerveless faith — a voiceless tone. 



Born but to die ! yet come again 
As phantoms o'er a haunted room, 
Still lingering where they once did reign, 
Our dearest wishes from their tomb. 
Born but to die ! they leave for aye 
A void — a vacancy of space, 
That still recalls, that will not die, 
The shadow of an empty/sgace. 



52 The Landscape. 

VIII. 

Born but to die ! the strong, the gay, 
Those whom the fond enchanted eye 
Draws to its inner world as day 
Doth woo the sunlight from the sky. 
Life ! dear mystery of woe, 
Thy loves recorded in a sigh, 
Thy stings, thy burdens, only grow ; — 
God ! are griefs not born to die ? 



1873. 



THE LANDSCAPE. 

SUGGESTED IN THE KOYAL ACADEMY. 

The poet and the painter's craft seems wed 
In one sweet luxury of Art, the touch 
Of undulating pencil speaks the heart 
With all the majesty of flowing verse. 
That silent roll of waters — the deep wave 
Gulfed in the narrow limits of the view, 
Are full of life to me ; the wild weird shore 
Is glowing with the spirit of the hour. 
Ah me ! ah me ! what solitude is here ! 
What grandeur to be all alone in this ! 
Here, where the quiet beauty of the scene 
Demands a heart subdued and feelings bent 
To one soft reverie, from which we wake 
Only to feel its sweetness come again : 



The Afterthought. 53 

And musing, thus I cried, " No critics here 
May cavil at the colour of a cloud ; 
For in the heart the sense of beauty lies, 
And this alone a poet's eye may scan. 

May, 1871. 



THE AFTERTHOUGHT. 

ON SEEING LORD BYRON's MSS. {See Note.) 



I saw the hills and valleys range afar, 

I heard the rush of waters and of wind, 

Whilst the dim lustre of the evening star, 

'Clipsed by the stragglers Day had left behind, 

Rose in the beauty of a modest love, 

Which raises all beneath by deeming them above. 

All this shall silence glean agen 

Still in the thought that comes not then. 

Ah, no ! not then the deepest light hath shone, 

Nor wakes th' enamoured soul to shout her joy : 

Not till the parting ray hath come and gone 

Returns again the freshness of a boy 

Who glories in the pleasures of the hour, 

And then forgets the scene, where loveliness had 

power 
O'er the pure feelings that arise in men, 
Yet to the poet's voiceless heart — not then. 



54 The Afterthought. 



'Tis sunk ! 'Tis hidden in a mine of gold, 
Which labouring sighs must bring again to air, 
Drawn from the labyrinth our bosoms hold, 
Shaped to perfection in the heart's close lair ; 
Where all th' impressions which a life hath made, 
Where all its landscaped thoughts lurk 'neath a 

hallowed shade. 
And then the waving moor and hill 
Return at call of poet's will ; 
Restored the light that hid forlorn, 
Now fresh with scent of some sweet morn, 
Twin-mated with our brightest dreams, 
And flushed with never-ending beams. 
Thus shall return to glad the glistening eye 
The visions won again by fancy's prisoned sigh, 
Inspired from on high, and fill 
The mind whose afterthought lay still. 



Borne as on wings of melody there steal, 
When nought but toil or sadness may oppress, 
The notes which once had rung in joyous peal 
Or smiles which shone upon a brief distress, 
And in a deeper chord of love renew 
The soft impressions whence a memory grew. 
The scenes we once had loved so well 
Allure with more enduring spell, 



Alone. 55 

And to a more than transient gaze 
Bring back the light of golden days. 
Then glorified in poet's rite, 
The Past and Present re-unite ; 
The Past to shed a purer ^low 
Over the sorrows now we know. 



Note. — Most of Byron's best pieces being never written on 
the spot, but afterwards, in fragments on fly-leaves, etc. 



ALONE. 
ON visiting a deserted home. 



Bear with me yet a little while, 

Thou tree, thou flower, thou grassy knoll, 

As silent visions by me file, 

Whilst Memory's hands unroll 

The tearful vista of the Past, 

Where every hope dispelled the last, 

Where every sympathy has flown 

To find a broken link — alone. 



Desolation ! how expressed 

In stillness where all motion seemed 



$6 Alone. 

A spirit born to be caressed, 

A formless Peri that has gleamed, 

And knit the soul of man to Earth, 

Which bred his loves, and gave hope birth, 

Gleamed but a moment to make known 

The bitterness — to be alone. 



Nature ! nurse of comfort, hear 
The voice of Solitude, whose sigh 
Hath stirred the leafless branches near, 
And drawn a cloud across the sky. 
Mother thou ! as mother, feel 
The barrenness the winds reveal ; 
The vacancy ne'er truer shown 
Than by the bud which blooms alone. 



There is a Spirit lurking nigh, 
That lures me 'neath the shady grove, 
I feel a presence none descry, 
Save they who know what 'tis to love. 
The shadow of a something lost 
O'er each well-trodden path has crost, 
And part of every haunt has grown, 
Where I have lingered not alone. 



is it but ssffiBB^iengthened dream^ 
Which hangSo'er wakened senses still, 



Alone. 57 

At every turn some phantom£seem^ 
With names beloved the air to fill ; 
Such name beloved, such sunlit scene 
Where youth fresh happiness did glean, 
Whose hour was joy — but never known 
How priceless then till now — alone ! 



Thou day that risest brightly clad 

On fresh-dewed Earth and Heaven's bright blue, 

There was a time when I was glad 

Because an unseen pleasure grew ; 

By thy sweet radiance love begun, 

Seemed blest by high ascending Sun, — 

I thought one ray should be my own, 

Where is it now ? I am alone. 



mother Earth ! thy soil shall feel 
The growth of love entwining round 
When soft embrace of Spring will steal 
The crispness from the yielding ground. 
But ah ! what Springtime is there here, 
When even hope has failed to cheer, 
To find the blossom Love had sown 
Thwarted — withered — -and alone ! 

1872. 



ODE TO THE SPIRIT OF MORN. 



Beautiful Spirit of Morn 
Peering from dreamland's abyss, 
Earth with thy blessing adorn, 
But wake her not yet with thy kiss. 



Draw but the curtain aside, 
Centre thy gaze on her eyes, 
Closed in the sleep of a bride, 
WhofeJover's embrace shall surprise. 



Through the cleft paths of the sky 
Glide in the lightness of love ; 
Catch but the fall of a sigh, 
And set it in rays from above. 



Whisper — Ah softer ! lest fear 
Rob thy delight of its charm ; 
Breathe but a wish to her ear — 
Beware the coy glance of alarm ! 



Dews o'er her brow ; by her bed 
The leaf that unfolded to see 



Ode to the Spirit of Morn. 59 

The stillness of beauty o'erhead ; 
Wake her not ! She's dreaming of thee. 



Not yet ! For the hour must fly, 
Treads on its heel the loud world 
Breaking through cloudlet and sky, 
Which the hand of a God unfurled ; 

VII. 

And hearts must awake to feel 
The peace of their memories flow 
Away from rude life, — and steal 
The freshness — the silence — the glow. 



And the past — the past is sweet, 
Though the dawn of day be wet 
With quiver of dews that greet 
The hope that is tinged with regret. 



Beautiful Spirit of Morn ! 
'Censed by the breath of the Spring, 
From bloom of her azure born, 
The gift of pure loveliness bring. 



Come ! through the hush of the air, 
Brushing the crest of each hill, 



60 Nevermore. 

As bridegroom to bride so fair, 
En wrapt in the love which is still. 



Speed not the dream that will break ; 
But with the opening of day 
Let visions of Night awake, 
Not lost — but fulfilled in a ray. 



The hues that first charmed the eyes,- 
The bird that beguiled with song, — 
The glow that was first to rise, — 
The dawn of real life would prolong. 



Come while the heart lifts above 
The founts of its grateful prayer, 
Beautiful Spirit of Love ! 
Life-giving Son of the Air ! 



January, 1874. 



NEVERMORE. 

When shall I learn to pluck the flower and feel 
No blight upon its blossom ? When shall Hope 
Burst from her chrysalis of sloth bright clad 
In all th' adornments that our fancy shed? 



Ode to Summer. 6r 

When shall return the spirit of a child, 

That on the threatenings of a storm has smiled ? 

When shall I love each friend as when we met, 

Ere faults were found and choice became regret ? 

When in the simpleness of Faith adore 

All that the eye beholds ? nevermore ! 



ODE TO SUMMER. 

i. 

Too long has she been adorning 
Her head with the circlet of flowers ; 
Heard she the call of the morning 
That chaseth away the dark hours ? 
Why tarry the wheels of her car, 
While her heralds are sounding afar, 
When the bird, the bud, and the prime 
Of the leaf awaiteth her time ? 
come, then, fair daughter of light ! 
In the glow of full radiance now, 
In pride of bestowing alight 
Where the stem 'neath the roses bow ; 
Where the gleam of thine eyes shall fill 
The meadow, thegorse, and the hill. 
'Tis the beaming of youth and of joy, 
That spreads o'er the earth to destroy 
The shadows of winter's decay ; 
Light us then, thou Queen of the Day ! 



62 Ode to Summer. 



But hark ! from yonder bough 
Familiar strains are breathing forth farewell ; 

wherefore, wherefore now, 
Those accents sad, sweet plaintive Philomel ? 
" I go with the past ; thou wilt list in vain, 

Thou shalt hear me no more," she cries ; 
" I shun the loud voices of summer's reign, 

With her clarion burst mine dies. 

My song was but trilled to rewake 

The lovely, the noble in men ; 

'Twas but a vain effort to make 

The now as delightful as then. 

I sang when each tribute of spring 

Was fresh with the incense of love, 

From the bower of youth I take wing ; 

My song is recorded above, 
Where the moon o'er the arc silent creeping 

To the throne of imperial night 
Hath oft shone in the lustre of weeping, 

And glistened with tears of delight." 



" Hence, sad forerunner of a wealth of sound ! 
A melody of hues — a rose-strewed ground ; 
Hence ! voice of lonely woods ! thy mystic spell 
Hath died upon the quivering of ' farewell ! ' 

Come, Fairy Queen, assert thy sway ! 

For life should be an endless choir 



Ode to Summer. 6$ 

Of harmonies for ever gay, 
Of echoes from a deathless lyre. 
Bathed in sunlight, perfumed o'er 
With the dew from honeyed store, 
Flushed with beauties till the eye 
Lives with gazing on the sky, 
Till the heart's unbounded ease 
Loosens all its bolts, and frees 
Love, which o'er the world shall steal 
Till its fullest joys we feel ; 
Till each river of the breast 
Starts from slothful bed of rest, 
Meets the bold embrace of air, 
And joys with elements to share. 
Come ! and all thy gifts outpour 
To the waves of chestnut bloom, 
From a perfect Heaven's door, 
Where they never dream of doom. 
Float through ether, drive away 
All but what is bliss to-day." 



'Tis vain ! for o'er the chimes will steal 

Voice of the silvery past ; 
In vain we seek to change the peal, 

Its cadence is overcast. 
Through the silence of eve will ring 

The melody heard of yore, 
And the waning of day will bring 

The tramp of some last " No more." 



64 Ode to Summer. 

I hear but its echoing feet, 
The kneli of the passing year, 

Swift fleeing away till they meet 
With the sun's encircling sphere. 

v. 

Mighty splendour ! queen of light ! 
Melting distance — bounding sight, 
While the signs of evening fall, 
And in falling soft recall 
All the glowing thoughts that fled, 
All the loving words we said, 
Treasured in the purple sky 
Whilst the darkness waiteth nigh ; 
Whilst each ray in transient gleams 
Fades upon our broken dreams, 
Still we fondly linger o'er 
Shadows that have gone before. 



Now thy wearied steeds the West, 

Enriching fold on fold, 
Hides within her mantled rest, 

And thy swift course is told. 
O'er the horizon creeping 
Now peers the stealthy star 
While the clouds are reaping 
Their golden sheaves afar. 
Stored in realms of beauty 
The harvest of the past, 



The Chimes. 65 

Love — affection — duty 

Garnered there at last. 

Gather in thy glory 

The fresh delights of day, 

Handing down each story 

Emblazoned on a ray, 

Till within thy splendour 

We lose the inner woe, 

Till thy stillness render 

Her peace to us below. 
I gaze upon thy orbed sphere 

Till not one streak is seen, 
Thou'rt gone ! and sighs are swelling here 

For all that once hath been. 
Yet not for aye thy clustered lights 

Have sunk beneath the hill, 
They will return to hallow nights 

When all but dreams are still. 

July, 1874. 



THE CHIMES. 

1. 
"Good night ! " The chimes from neighbouring tower 
Are ringing out the midnight hour. 
Thou and I still awake, Bell. 
" Good night." I will not bid farewell. 
Thy voice is like some warning friend 
That speaks of rest where yew trees bend, 

5 



66 The Chimes. 

That tells of many a long good night ; 
Yet still I watch beneath the light 
Of stars soft arching o'er the glade, 
Through the impassive, mystic shade 
Of elms and ivy round the tower, 
That sleeps within their sombre bower. 



" Good night." The echoes linger still 

On the dark outline of yon hill ; 

Yet in those words the numbered day 

Glides back upon a moonlit ray, 

And all the quiet joys that sped 

Rise as the ghosts of churchyard dead ; 

Rise with the thoughtless uttered breath, 

And ring the chimes, " There is no death." 

The hours which love hath crowned her own 

Come back when most we feel alone : 

The words — the hand — the smile that shone 

On life's young path can ne'er begone ; 

Each moment vanished into space 

Recalls some dear, some wistful face, 

Rekindling with new- wakened power 

The silence of the midnight hour. 

Aye ! for the thought's eternal fane 

Shall ring with the chimes of life again, 

That mingle with thy tones, Bell ! 

Good night ! I will not bid farewell. 

ShoreJiam Rectory, August, 1874. 



6/ 



THE LAST SUMMER DAY 

ON THE THAMES BELOW EICHMOND. 

" Eemembrance oft shall haunt the shore, 
When Thames in summer wreaths is drest." 

Collins. 

i. 

What is more lovely than a winding stream, 
Over whose quiet throbbiugs dance the waves, 
Pulseless, yet bearing in their lithesome touch 
The spirit-stirring ecstacy of joy; 
While on the sloping marge sweet Art has grown, 
As 'twere in sympathy with Nature's charms, 
Where in the calm of verdant earth we find 
A solace from the ruffling world behind ; 
The fleecy clouds — the placid blue horizon 
Seem knit together for our dream's ascent. 

ii. 

summer, could thy shining months endure 
For ever and for ever through the years ! 
If the revolving seasons could not bring 
Aught that might dim the smile of life with tears, 
Should we grow weary of eternal joy, 
Or listless sink upon a mossy bank, 
Watching the silver of the eddies curl, 
And dream our petty life of sunshine by, 
Impatient of the rays and glowing shore ? 
Could we but drown thy call, restless soul ! 



8 The Last Summer Day. 

Whom beauty lures not save by seeming new, 
Unperfect in thy parts when change, decay, 
Must balance half to make the other gay : 
Yet sweeter are the moments such as these, 
When only sighs disturb the evening breeze, 
Dearer by far because they are so few. 
We loved not Zephyr ere rude Boreas blew. 



ye fond hearts that woo these sunny hours ! 
Gliding athwart the bosom of fair Thames, 
The sunshine of your forms remains to me 
Like the grouped setting of a lovely view. 
To be together in a scene like this 
Enkindles the deep love those only feel 
Whose eyes are open to the hidden life 
That pours its sultry offering to Heaven 
Under the gentle slope of hill and field. 
Comrades in joy ! the dancing of the rays, 
The sparkling of the waters in the sun, 
The sympathies of river and of sky, 
Speak to your hearts, as they have breathed on 

mine, 
The blessed happiness of mutual love ; 
And may the holy calmness of their power 
Join us in spirit through the wintry hour, 
Melt in our breasts the fellowship of tears, 
Bear our joint hopes as gently through the years, 
As the soft current ripples past our prow : 
Then may we greet each other e'en as now, 



" Worshipped with Her!' 69 

Though it be long ere we may while away 
The pensive moments of a summer's day. 



Farewell, farewell ! ye fleeting joys, farewell ! 

The time is come of darkness and of clouds : 

The gleam of smouldering embers linger still, 

Piercing the twilight of the dying hour ; 

The last fond vision of a summer day 

Is fading 'mid the yellow leaves away ; 

The last dear glance from yonder hillock's brow, 

All, all is o'er, and solitude reigns now. 

Why should I turn ? and turn again to sigh 

O'er scene which seems to mock the parting eye ? 

The tree must wither and the leaf must fade, 

Ere summer bloom again on forest glade, 

Yet the long winter's night alone can tell 

How hard to reconcile the last farewell. 

November, 1871. 



"WORSHIPPED WITH HER." 

1. 

God is love. Let incense rise 
Unseen by all save angels' eyes, 
No myrrh with odorous savour lave 
The taint of sinful ether — save 
The purity of hearts that own 
A mutual melody of tone. 



jo A Night at Sea. 

ii. 
those are joys ! which o'er us steal, 
When by our side the dearest kneel ; 
With adoration unexpressed 
The sacrifice of love is blessed, 
In the full thankfulness of soul 
Which heavenly innocence hath stole. 

in. 
" Worshipped with her ! " The. prayer ascends 
Mingled with hers ; devotion blends 
One vow to Heaven — one hope to earth ; , 
One sigh which hallowed joy gave birth, 
A feeling that the hour is one 
To mark a lifetime — and 'tis gone ! 

December, 1871. 



A NIGHT AT SEA. 

i. 

The height of Eternity's arching is crowned by circlet 

of night, 
The mysteries born of the sea are bathed in a halo of 

light ; 
While ceaseless waves of unrest seem becalmed by 

the passage of Love, 
Till roll of billows respond to the Spirit of Silence 

above. 



A Night at Sea. yi 

Flushed with the might of ascending, the moon in a 

volume of fire 
Hath scornfully spurned the clouds, that in sullen 

seclusion retire ; 
Yet o'er the setting of planets the beauty of strength 

seems diffused ; 
And o'er the silvery paths that are gleaming — so 

broken and bruised 
By rude upheaving of waters — she rules in her mys- 
tical power, 
And claims the wide ocean her own — entranced by the 

hush of the hour. 
List ! Her message is speechless, but revealed in the 

glitter of foam, 
Which lines the dark skirting of azure, "till sky and 

sea have one home. 

ii. 

I ask not to scan her secrets, but feel the pure longing 
of Faith 

To bound with the leaping of snowflakes, to gaze on 
each spray bedewed wraith 

Dancing afar to the sunset till lost with the fading of 
Day; 

Know but the glory of motion — the freedom of speeding 
away \ 

Only to list for the trailing of natures that rustle un- 
seen, 

Cleaving the air with bright wings, as they follow the 
train of their Queen, 



72 A Night at Sea. 

As meekly she greets the hoarse welcome of spirits who 

live to revere 
The whispering kisses of Heaven — the message of love 

from a sphere. 



New worlds are gleaming before us, new feelings, 

which only can tell 
Their joys in the voiceless emotion of an endless fall 

and swell. 
It seems not the same blue heaven that reigned o'er 

the quiet of home. 
It seems not the same pure moon that over the nrtops 

did roam, 
And shine on the tameness of Earth, or smile on the 

temperate zone 
Of man and his petty belongings ; Queen now of 

waters alone ! 
The glittering road of the Sea seems to vie with the 

passage on high, 
Lit ifi&m'by the planet's reflexions, that linger refus- 
ing to die. 
Though ris'n encrimsoned with anger, the moon in the 

beauty of rest 
Now sheds the light of forgiveness — till wind, wave, 

and storm-cloud are blest ; 
Then glancing back on her progress e'en memory's 

tear will surprise 
The look that rekindles the star, whose glory first 

spurred her to rise. 



A Night at Sea. 73 

So we seek to retrace the paths now lost in a turmoil 

of spray, 
And yearn for the dim horizon that was reft from us 

yesterday, 
So shall we sigh for life's footprints illumined by 

rays from that star, 
Which beckoned our hopes o'er the waves to fade in 

the shadows afar. 
would I might course on those billows away to the 

distant shore ! 
And glow in the cycle of sunsets ; feel their last 

glances once more : 
Dearer to human affections the ties of each moment of 

space 
Sealed by the lips of a parting — the hallowing touch of 

embrace. • 

Farewell ! farewell to your sparkling ; ye will-o-the- 

wisps of the seas 
That lure the soul till its sorrow is lost in the scent of 

the breeze, 
Till, 'mid its lonely repinings, the thought that oppresses 

the mind 
Flies o'er the vastness of Ocean to Eternity uncon- 

fined, 
Where a new' moon shall regather the glories of those 

which have shone, 
Besprinkling the dome of new heaven with gems that 

we fancied had gone. 
E'en now 'mid those wastes of wild waters I feel that 

the soul is free, 



74 "A Little While? 

When the beauty of Night, betrothed to the depth of a 
lovely sea, 

Doth call to the heart within, which is beating to wit- 
ness the rite, 

To joy in those mystical joys when spirit to spirit 
unite. 

London to Aberdeen, 1874. 



"A LITTLE WHILE." 

Fancy spreads her golden train 
O'er the wealth of hope's domain 

A little while. 
Sun and breeze conspire to win 
Some frail buds from blight within 

A little while. 
Constant visions absence weaves 
Of the love that ne'er deceives 

A little while. 
Wreaths, by fleeting triumph thrown, 
Strive to make life's path their own 

A little while. 
Brief the glow of flying years, 
Sown in glory — reaped in tears. 
Summer bids the spring away, 
Autumn trippeth to decay 
And the stealthy hours defile, 
With that knell " a little while." 



Regret. 75 

Only this in parting tell, 
When thou whisperest farewell, 
"O'er my lone dreams fondly smile, 
Till it seem a little while." 

May, 1874. 



REGRET. 

WEITTEN IN POET'S WALK, ETON PLAYING FIELDS. 

To S. L. H. 
i. 
could I dream for ever here ! 

Beneath the rustling trees, 
Or 'mid those crystal circles steer, 

My guiding helm the breeze ; 
And leave no trace of where we cleft 

The feathery wave in spring 
To haunt our minds when May has left, 

And swallows taken wing : 
The memory of the wind that now 

Is playing 'neath the shade 
Shall seem again to fan our brow 

When all that's bright doth fade. 

ii. 

Sport on ! sport on, thou happy boy, 
While all thy paths are spread 

With flowers that wreathe a holy joy, 
Which Innocence hath shed. 



76 The Torrent. 

From these dear realms of fairy-land 

How many launched from shore, 
And drew their anchor from the strand, 

Only to sigh for yore ! 
Yet though they may return to gain 

The pleasures boyhood made, 
They ne'er will feel its life again, 

For all that's bright must fade. 

in. 
who would not have lingered here ! 

Where on this flowery sod 
Some bard perchance hath vowed to rear 

A shrine for nature's God. 
Yet why this sadness stealing all 

The sweets of Springtime's bliss ? 
The charm is broke ere lips let fall 

" There is an end to this ; " 
There is a doom of toil and woe, 

That points beyond this glade, 
And now must soon be long ago, 

For all that's bright must fade. 



May, 1871. 



THE TOKKENT. 

I sat me down upon the sloping bank 

Under the leafy cover of the ash, 

And watched the river winding 'neath the rocks, 

Which by their height uplifted from the shore 



The 7 "<?;- -rent. JJ 

Looked down upon the waves that vexed the clefts 
Of humbler comrades, conquered by the force .. , 
Of rushing waters swelled by storms of rain, 
While thus the mountain torrent sang its joy. 



Over rock and over stone, 
Down the falls and through the shoal, 
Making cave and cranny moan, 
Surging, foaming, on we roll. 



Who shall hinder ? who shall stay ? 
Who shall bar our fierce array ? 
Nay ! though stubborn rocks may try, 
We run past with mocking cry. 



We have forced a rough-hewn road, 
Where our waves have rampant flowed ; 
Winding though our path may be, 
Still our hopes are tow'rds the sea. 



-" Thou shalt stop," the crag hath said, 
And put forth his rugged head, 
Casting boulders in our way, 
Trusting in their hoary grey. 



y8 The Torrent. 



Then we roared in fiercer strain, 
" We must reach the freeborn main, : 
Tossed our necks in scornful might, 
Seething o'er them kept our flight. 



Swiftly whirling here and there, 
Stirring up each sluggish lair, 
Leaping cat'racts in our road, 
Sweeping past the her'ns abode. 

VII. 

Welcome ! welcome, little rill ! 
Rippling downwards from the hill, 
Didst thou hear our distant call, 
From thy bed, sweet waterfall ? 



Come, and join our wild career, 
Swifter now thy course is clear ! 
Hark ! I hear thee trickling down, 
'Neath the shade of heather brown. 



We have burst our prison cells, 
By the moor and mossy dells ; 
Many streams from hilly sides, 
Met we all, and joined our tides. 



The Cathedral. 79 



Then we raised our chorus high, 
To the birds that skimmed us by ; 
Then we Jbore the trout along, 
Flashing in a silvered throng. 

XI. 

Hail ! ye clouds in mighty force, 
That hang o'er our wilful course, 
Swiftly. send your blissful rain, 
Eival us with thunder strain. 



For the sun hath poured his rays, 
In the sultry summer days, 
And we lazy murmured o'er 
Glens now startled by our roar. 

Thus sang the stream, and hastened on its way, 
Deafening all sounds in its wild jubilee. 

T7ie Burn, Kincardineshire, 1869. 



THE CATHEDBAL. 



What sense of awe is stealing 
Through the cloistered pile ! 

What harmony is pealing 
Down the columned aisle ! 



8o The Cathedral. 

'Tis the chill from the tomb of peace, 
'Tis the rest that shall never cease, 
'Tis the waning note from the breath 
Of the trump that summons to dea4h. 



Shadowy gleams the twilight 

Through the oriel pane ; 
Arches almost lost to sight 
Span the sculptured fane ; 
My soul responds a silent prayer, 
As sounds my hollow footsteps there, 
Where no cry of trouble soundeth, 
Where God's halo all surroundeth. 



Deserted is the chancel, 

Lonely is the choir ; 
Yon lies the vaulted chapel, 
Above, the tapering spire. 
No voices stir the solemn scene, 
We whisper as we pass the screen 
That parts the living from the tomb, 
We tread where spirits wait their doom. 

IV. 

Sepulchral hangs the banner 

O'er the Lennox race, 
Lords of many a manor, 

This their choicest place. 



The Cathedral. 

Lo ! here is one that braved the field, 
And bade his country's foemen yield ; 
Wavelhonoured record of his name, 
Guard from the chill of death his fame. 



Silent the old world lieth 

'Neath the marble floor, 
Yet still methinks it crieth, 
With the voice of yore, 
" Love us, for we were staunch and true, 
love the names we reared for you ; 
Thy church, thy country, all were nought, 
Had we not for their honour fought." 



Suddenly thrilling my ear, 

Down the long aisles roll 
The notes of melody clear, 
Subduing the soul. 
" Rest in the Lord," the organ sang, 
Till the echoing cloisters rang : 
Up to the misty heights it soared, 
Till all vibrate in sweet accord, 

" Rest in the Lord." 

Chichester, 1869. 



82 

TO A. G. H. ON LEAVING FOR INDIA. 

i. 

Brother ! I held thee dear, but dearer now 
When thou art gone, and left a void behind 
In every breast, — when by the genial hearth 
We all are gathered — all save one — yet he 
Makes the sad circle incomplete where each 
Is joined to all by purest ties of love. 
Shall we regret thee ? yea ! how could we not ? 
Yet we shall think with pride that thou art gone 
To noblest service — that of Queen and land, 
To guard an empire on a distant strand ; 
And in the comfort of a future learn 
. To pour our hearts in prayer for thy return. 

n. 

How many a sunny hour have you and I 
Numbered together, when I sought thy side, 
To find my truest friend, and the far world, 
With thoughts of man, in pleasing distance seemed. 
To you those days are o'er, another sun 
Dawns on a separate sphere — Ye clouds, avaunt ! 
As boys we walked together — now apart 
We'll share the dear remembrance of those days. 
Let then the links of years be joined again 
By silent hopes that now seem breathed in vain ; 
And whilst a mother's tear upon thee swell, 
Think all our loves locked there — in one farewell. 

1869. 



83 

JANAFRA.* 
i. 

Tuen thee ! turn thee, hapless maid, 
Janafra ! 

Why thus bounding up the glade ? 

Janafra ! 

Mount no more the dizzy height, 

Waves are rolling hoarse to-night, 

Janafra ! 

ii. 
Why those eyes of crimson hue ? 

Janafra ! 
Who could have been hard to you ? 

Janafra ! 
Why do locks so wildly flow ? 

Janafra ! 
Who hath made thee mad with woe ? 

Janafra ! 



She has neared the awsome brow, 
Breathless standing — trembling now, 

Janafra ! 
Lo ! a barque towards the West 
Bounds with all that she loved best, 

Janafra ! 

* Janafra, or Generra, of Lee Abbey, Lynton, North Devon 
(a.d. 1632). The spot is still shown where she threw herself 
from the cliff. 



Janafra. 

IV. 

Now no more lie thinks of thee, 

Janafra ! 

Falser than that smiling sea, 

Janafra ! 

Laughing gaily he will sail, 

Leaving thee alone to wail, 

Janafra ! 

v. 

Storm clouds gathering o'er the blue, 
Hide thy love for aye from you, 

Janafra ! 
Lightning lit thy streaming hair, 

Janafra ! 
Flashed once more — thou wert not there ! 

Janafra ! 

VI. 

Roll the ruffled waves again „ 

Janafra ! 

Lapping where a corpse is lain, — 

Janafra ! 

Something white upon the stones, — 

Whilst the echoes mock their tones, 

" Janafra ! Janafra ! " 



85 



SONG— " ONE THOUGHT OF ME.' 



I ask not for pledges, I crave not thy love, 
I leave that ^OrTime in its season to prove ; 
I ask not for promise of hopes that may be ; 
I ask from thy silence but one thought of me. 



For words may be fickle, and glances are frail, 
I would not the gladness of beauty should pale ; 
I would thou might'st rove 'mid the joyous and free, 
If memory gather but one thought of me. 



I wish not for years to add links to the chain 
That's broken so oft, though we still meet again ; 
The voice of the Past come as wave of the sea, 
/Jnd bear on its billows but one thought of me. 



Gleam light through their spray, and as pure as their 

foam, 
The far-lit horizon that dawned on our home ; 
For life will be sweeter, how sad though it be, 
If blest by the pity of one thought for me. 

February, 1875. 



86 



TO HOPE. 

( The day is gone, and all its sweets are fled."— Keats, 



The birds are singing in the genial air, 
The trees are teeming with the blossoms fair ; 
The welcome Spring in fresh- dewed verdure clad 
Reigns o'er the heart of Earth, and makes her glad ; 
And I — I, too, rejoice beneath the sky- 
That bids the winter of our sorrows fly, 
And every feeling to soft influence ope, 
To lie embosomed 'twixt the wings of Hope. 



The heavens and the Earth in pure delight 
Vie with each other to make all things bright ; 
The height and depth eternal with one voice 
Chorus their hymn of praise, " Rejoice ! Rejoice !" 
Joy in the passing sunshine of the hour, 
Joy in the bursting of the early flower, 
Joy in the quiet calmness of the sphere ; 
Let Hope dispel the clouds till all is clear. 



'Tis eve ; great Nature's joy hath died away ; 
Hushed are the thrilling strains that woke the day ; 
Softly the trees are sighing in the grove, 
The tales of old remembrance — sighs of love. 



Absence. 8y 

The day is gone ; — the twilight lingers yet, 
Ere leaving Earth to darkness and regret. 
To vespers calling sounds the evening bell, 
While sheds the western sun a last farewell. 



The day is gone ! Ah, what did promise gain ? 
Doth Eve bring heart's content upon her train ? 
Night approaches. See yon lonesome star 
Shows glimmering beacon to the world afar ; 
Light upon the waters gleaming now, 
One ray of Hope moves o'er their sullen brow. 
Alas ! to me Hope's visions seem not nigh, 
Another day hath gone — and still I sigh. 

1870. 



ABSENCE. 



Eke the summer bloom had flown, 
Ere the trees had shed a leaf, 
Ere the wintry wind had blown, 

Ah ! then we met. 
Now the harvest fields are mown, 
Gathered the last waving sheaf ; 
Now thou hast left me alone, 

Filled with regret. 



A bsence, 

ii. 
Then by the brookside we trod, 
In the sunshine's glow we strolled, 
Our feet marked the selfsame sod — 

Love walked between. 
Now hard is the frozen clod ; 
To the skies my prayers unfold, 
Leaving to favour of God 

Tby form unseen. 

in. 

But why should I wish thee nigh ? 
Why is thy presence so dear ? 
Do not I feel with my cry 

Thy soul is here ? 
Dear friend, thou never canst fly 
From reach of a kindly tear ; 
The breath of a parting sigh 

Will bring thee near. 



'Mid the strange stillness of night, 
With the beams of rising morn, 
Thy spirit lingers in sight, 

Though thou hast gone. 
Joy cometh not with the light, 
I shun its gay laugh of scorn ; 
Something is lacking — a blight 

That must be borne. 

1870. 



8 9 



TO SPRING. 

WRITTEN AFTER READING OF THE OUTBREAK OF 
" REVOLUTION IN PA.RIS. 

I. 

One moment snatched from all the stir of life, 
To raise a pasan to the dawn of spring, 
A song of triumph, not with clamours rife, 
A gentler note of thankfulness I bring. 
There is a charm of brightness in the plain, 
There is a solitude of rest around ; 
There seems a spirit's whisper in each strain, 
That bids us pause, enamoured of the sound. 

ii. 

The fever of the day at length beats low, 
Those fires whose embers light us to the grave; 
The yearning after what we may not know, 
The wish to rise that brands the toiler slave ; 
All these have ceased : we tread a purer sphere, 
A realm of poesy, a world of love ; 
The quiet of the hill and silent mere 
Seem to reflect the eternal peace above. 

in. 
Calmness within, and rage without, the sound 
Of passion, fury, turmoil, this I hear 
Come clashing on the stillness that is found 
Only in homes which England renders dear. 



go To on Receipt of her Portrait. 

Dear home ! that drives the furrows from knit brow, 
To raise the burden from the troubled breast, 
This is thy part — let me linger now, 
And feel through heart and soul the joy of rest. 

IV. 

Peace breathes on all. Lo ! this the precious pearl 
The madness of the nations cast away ; 
Like the wild billows that in wrathful curl 
Break on the glassy stillness of a bay ; 
So will these miscreants, stained with blood of kin, 
Taste of no rest, save on dishonoured field. 
England ! I thank thee ! for I feel within 
The blessed love thy happy pastures yield. 

March, 1871. 



TO ON RECEIPT OF HER PORTRAIT. 



dear memorial of a sunny hour ! 

Be thou the emblem of true friendship's power, 

The pledge our frail mortality demands, 

Lest absence drown the voice of love's commands. 



Oft, when the twilight of to-day doth end 
The morrow fond desire had made her own, 



To on Receipt of her Portrait, 91 

Oft will the vista of its setting blend 

The past enjoyments which the hours have sown. 



So shall this shadow of thy silent form 
Breathe the soft charm of memory's bequest, 
And the grey autumn of lone years transform 
Into the golden time, which thou hast blest. 



Then from o'erhead thy face shall lighten all, 
Lending our fancies power to recall ; 
Then shall T glance in dear delight above, 
Yet sigh to feel unworthy of thy love. 



Thus through the flying night and wane of day 
Regret and happiness alternate sway, 
Regrets the last to linger, yet to leave 
A heart that feels sufficient love to grieve. 

August, 1873. 



^onnet& 



THE SHADOW ON THE PATH. 

Happy the morn which breaks upon our rest, 
Crowned by the wreath which Love's soft touch hath 

drest ; 
Happy the morn when Nature's heart is glad, 
In the pure stillness of her beauty clad. 
Why then these tears, whose fountain wells again ? 
Whence steal these pearls which eyelids bar in vain ? 
No thought of selfish pain, of pleasure gone, 
We feel for others when ourselves are lone. 
" No more ! No more ! " is wringing in my ears, 
" No more ! No more ! " is beckoning to these tears; 
A shadow crossed my path ; I felt its breath, 
Drawn as a hollow sigh whose chill was death; 
A shadow crossed my path, and cloaked in sadness 

went, 
And to this happy morn the peace of sorrow lent. 

Christmas Day, 1874. 



93 

II. 

THE COLD LOVE. 

When flattery's voice outpours unbidden praise, 
Till the flushed glow of conscious pride shall raise 
A sense of confidence, a trustful rest 
Upon th' affections that we reverence best; 
When to our hopes a recompence is made, 
Beyond for what our trembling wishes prayed ; 
When phantom dreams that long have danced before 
Our wistful eyes are gathered in life's store ; 
When the clear voice of harmony doth bring 
A thousand mem'ries on her plaintive wing, 
Or to the gladness of the heart repeat 
A tale of envied love, 'tis not complete ! 
O'er every brimming cup a bitterness will steal, 
Ah ! if but one were here ! If she could only feel ! 

1873. 



III. 

LOST OPPORTUNITY. 

(tone ! and I knew not what I had to say, 
Shrunk in the longing look of those sad eyes. 
Gone ! and yet lingered ere I whispered " Stay ! ' 
Gone ! ere the shadow of a thought could rise, 



94 Autumn Sonnet to my Mother. 

Gone ! and I wist not that it was to-day, 
When the brief morrow too had rolled away,' 
Fled on the river of my lonely sighs. 
A hope was lit this morn — a strange surmise, 
That throbbed with strong desire — yet all in vain, 
For love could find no word to tell its pain. 
All that a yearning heart had sought to know, 
One moment's pause has checked the ready flow ; 
All that the coward tongue had failed to tell, 
Hushed in the silence of a life's farewell. 

October, 1873. 



IV. 

AUTUMN SONNET TO MY MOTHER. 

And cjQmoot i fr kom to claim the dues of years ! 
The tribute of the leaves — the debt of tears ; 
And ooaaoot tkou again,* old hallowed friend ! 
Bound by the past, yet beckoning to the end, 
Bound by the ties of life's serenest hours, 
Bound by the sweet remembrance of dead flowers, 
Once more to chant thy dirge, so old, so true, 
Of little done, and fewer left to do ! 
Ah ! comest thou indeed ! so swift — so soon, 
Tinged with the golden flush of summer's noon : 
Yet on orTe brow thy deepening rays bestow 
A sweeter grace than youth : a brighter glow, 



Composed on Blackfriars Bridge. 95 

Born of our first affection's holy dawn, 
Points to a home by autumn nearer drawn. 
From the fresh Spring of hope we wake to know 
That love hath had another year to flow ; 
Yet should we sigh to find said Time unfold 
The wasted moments, when our hearts seemed cold? 
Nay ! for though Autumn comes again, 'twill rear 
The seed of deeper love — too deep to blossom here. 

November, 1873. 



V. 
COMPOSED ON BLACKFRIARS BRIDGE. 

A glow of distance — an awakening world 
Heaving from out the mist, ere yet unfurled 
The pennons of bright morn, — a river's breast 
Blanched with the many ripples of unrest ; 
A world of silent thought, — a teeming home 
Crowned with the mystic quiet of a dome. 
London ! I greet thee, though I seek in vain 
A fellow feeling with thy crowds to gain. 
No ! yet to be alone 'mid these, and feel 
Only the breath of Heaven's light vapours steal 
The hardness from thy walls, — and in the bend 
Of bridge and shore, where Art and Nature blend, 
The poet's visionary eye may scan 
A beauty that dispels the commonplace from man. 

January, 1874. 



9 6 

VI. 

TO THE " UNRETURNING BRAVE." 

(ashantee wae.) 

Youes not the laurel from a grateful land ! 
Yours not the passing triumph of the hour ! 
Yours not the welcome from a loving hand ! 
Yours not the glad return in pride and power ! 
A tenderer thought is yours ! a deeper glow, 
Shed o'er the silent mysteries of doom, 
Shall gather to itself the tears of woe, 
And melt within its rays the chill of gloom. 
Spirits ! that linger on a distant shore, 
Hear ye the rolling message of the foam ? 
Where, with the Ocean murmurs of " No more !" 
Mingles your tribute of a sigh from home. 
One sigh soft stealing 'mid the loud acclaim, 
That hails your fellows in proud Honour's toil, 
Shall rear a fond memorial of each name 
Left in lone glory on an alien soil ; 
A land of darkness and of crime, yet now 
The glow that rests upon a soldier's grave 
Hallows the spot and circles o'er the brow 
Of England's dead — her " unreturning brave." 
(Macmillan.) June, 1874. 



97 



VII. 

The wind has sunk to rest : still gently sway 
The boughs in soft accord, save now and then 
The gusts of dying whirlwinds seem to play 
With some coy leaf that had escaped their ken. 
The wind has sunk to rest : that spirit voice - 
Is heard no more among the forest trees, — 
Is tamed within due bounds, — yet at her choice 
Still free she roves — still with her wings the breeze 
Sweeps o'er the chords that have no utterance here ; 
The whispers of the elm — the willow's tear. 
There is a music in the air, a song 
Which Heav'n breathed forth and Nature's choirs pro- 
long ; 
By such dear strains our lonely lives are blest, 
My heart is still — the wind has sunk to rest. 

April, 1874. 



Till. 
TO KEATS. 

WRITTEN AT BURFORD BRIDGE, WHERE KEATS WROTE 
"ENDYMION." 

If we might think that spirits came again 
To some loved spot to which their life was bound, 
Where 'mid the changing hues of Earth remain 
Some thought eternal — some melodious sound, 

7 



98 On Memory. 

Which caught the rapture of the lonely wood — 
Some tender-breathing Hope — some silent mood, — 
Sure this were thine ; and if presumption be 
To tread the selfsame paths — to feel the glow 
Of myriad blossoms bursting forth to free 
These lovely hills from blight — the heart from woe, 
Pardon the daring of these steps of mine, 
That boldly trespass among groves divine, 
Where 'mid the bloom of fondly hid retreats 
I hear the whisper of thy spirit, Keats ! 

May, 1874. 



IX. 
ON MEMORY. 

WRITTEN IN MAGDALEN WALK, OXFOED. 

Was it the swallow that begot the thought ? 

Was it the swiftness of his sudden flight, 

That flashed upon the stream, and lightly caught 

The silver eddies o'er the pools of night ? 

There seems to rest upon the leafy glade 

The viewless presence of some fluttering soul, 

That broke the silence of its cloistered shade, 

And struck the key-note which hath charmed the 

whole. 
O'er the still softness of the vernal hour 
Hovers the spirit of creative power ; 



Scotland Revisited, 99 

For Memory seems to peer amid the leaves, 
Till every songster with her yearning grieves. 
There, where the waters of the mill-stream flow, 
Mingle some voices that we used to know, 
And every vista opening out to view, 
Kecalls some scene that former springtimes knew, 
Knew ! and have learned to treasure in the past, 
With all that ever seemed too pure to last ; — 
Ah ! what a flood of rapture thought may bring, 
Borne on the passage of a swallow's wing ! 

June, 1874, 



X. 
SCOTLAND REVISITED. 

TO A. G. H. 

Brother ! I seem to ravel out the years, 

I seem to catch the breath of long ago, 

As in a dream wild Caledonia rears 

Her mountain passes — where we trod below ; 

And sheds the light which Freedom loves to gain ; 

On^one lone heart where erst she lit the twain. 

Arthur ! thy voice is on her breeze — thy tone 

Floats on her streamlets — whilst I tread alone ; 

Calls from the sunsets of the days gone by, 

Sounds in her falls — and torrent's deep-mouthed cry. 



ioo Tantallan. 

As Scotland's tale is writ upon her streams, 
Her glens- — her purpled straths, — e'en so our dreams. 
Circled within the bounds of her loved shore, 
Relume new greetings with the rays of yore. 

September, 1874. 



XI. 

TANTALLAN. 

Stronghold of ocean !* shattered pride of man, 

Shadow and substance, yet how brief a span 

Rolleth between you ! rock and crumbling stone 

Each realm upreared — defiant and alone. 

Sound but a trumpet ! Wake again the dead ! 

The plumes, the flash of steel — nay, sunset red 

Dips on the verge to cast a peaceful glow 

On broken arch and stair, o'ercome by foe 

That creeps unseen,— Time's hand has turned the page, 

Recorded, not recalled, a bygone age. 

Then rise, Romance ! and bid that thief restore 

Treasure more golden than he robbed before. 

'Tis vain ! though dreamy ships still sail away, 

Shunning the stern defiance of that bay, 

Now from ancestral rdck the sea-fowl throned 

Mocks the gaunt ruin which a Douglas owned. 

1874. 

* The Bass Rock, situated exactly opposite Tantallan Castle. 



101 

XII. 

STRATHEARN. 

Thebe is a silent beauty in thy name, 

Yale of Strathearn ! which lingers on thy brow, 

E'en though thy native wildness should seem tame, 

E'en though thy banks are stirred by culture now. 

The rest of solitude is lying still, 

Girt by the gentle links of rock and hill 

In love-connecting chain, — there, like a child 

Crouching beneath the Grampians lonely wild. 

Strathearn ! the dearest memories will shine 

Upon thy woodland dells ; whene'er 'tis mine 

To dwell 'neath shadows or in grief — thy name 

Shall glide with scent of heath as when we came 

Down from thy glistening lake beside the burn, 

Rolling repeated echoes of " Strathearn. 5 ' 

Culdees, Perthshire, 1874. 



XIII. 

A LETTER FROM GRASSMERE. 

Led by an instinct rather than by will, 
Lured by the smiles of woodclad vale and hill, 
Spelled by the foam-wreathed sounding of the fall, 
Who could have heard and not obeyed their call ? 



02 Earthly Greetings. 

There seemed a whisper — an autumnal sigh, 

" Thou who wouldst know true beauty, hither fly.' 

But hark ! another voice is on the air, 

'Tis fond Tradition bids me linger here ; 

Priest of the Lakes ! that clustered silence there, 

I felt it was thy shrine — 'twas Ryclal Mere. 

Yet still another voice with softness drew 

My wandering footsteps o'er the mountain dew, 

Pass of sweet hopes ! Thy charmed vale I near, 

Nestled in perfect peace — and she is here. 

October, 1874 



XIV. 

EARTHLY GREETINGS. 

Once more I look for greetings, and I find 

Nought but the oft-told tokens that remind 

How frail, how brief our joys ! Once more I feel 

The sad remembrances which years reveal. 

The bliss of welcome lyeth in the past, 

Then can we smile through veil by Death o'ercast ? 

Then can we joy ? though we ourselves are left, 

When others mourn of tenderest loves bereft. 

Self cannot joy in self, if others weep ; 

Some rude awakenings from this dream of sleep 

Cross the bright gleamings of our stifled mirth, 

And point above ; — yet still we cling to earth, 

Where but one strain, one deepening choir around, 

Drowns the far music of a Heav'n new found. 

December, 1874. 



103 

XY. 

ON THE DEATH OF A FAVOURITE DOG. 

When field and grove are full of newborn hope, 
And Earth is scented with a summer's pledge ; 
When Spring's light foot comes dancing o'er green slope 
To the shrill music from each quivering hedge ; 
When all that living is hath found new breath, 
Thy voice, dear friend, is hushed for aye in death ; 
Friend and fond comrade of our youthful years, 
Sharer of all their chequered smiles and tears, 
Grown with ourselves to know what home can mean, 
When glad return betrays how mourned unseen ! 
Gone ! and my wistful glance is backward thrown, 
Down the long vista of twelve summers flown. 
These can have no farewells, — though now we sigh, 
"For Love is deathless ! Memory cannot die. ; ' 

April, 1875. 



XVI. 
FINIS. 



These are the echoes of the hours of peace ; 
In them no record of still thought shall cease ; 
They are the music of a life, — each chord 
From the hid lutestrings of a heart hath soared. 
Then must they die ? Not while the past is dear, 
Not whilst I mourn the ebbing of each year, 



104 Finis. 

G-roping for unseen light, by Nature led 

Through wayward paths which purity has spread, 

Till at the footsteps of His vaulted throne 

I feel the presence of a God alone ; 

Whence all the loves we once had known shall turn 

To welcome Beauty in a realm eterne, 

Where the keen bitterness of loss shall lend 

A deeper joyance that will know no end. 

March, 1875. 



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